


Three Hugs Porthos Gave and One He Received

by MDJensen



Series: Three Times (Plus One) [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Porthos hugs are the best hugs, Post 2.02, it's practially canon, light-hearted H/C, post 2.08, slighly less light-hearted H/C
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody needs a hug sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Hugs Porthos Gave and One He Received

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter of _Honest Songs_ will be up in a few days, but I'm home sick today so I decided to cheer myself up by writing this. Hope you enjoy :)

If he gets any closer to the fire he’s going to set alight his eyebrows-- and yet Athos is considering it. How is it that nobody else is reacting to the cold? Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan sit calmly, a respectable distance from the flames; Athos has long known himself a bit more vulnerable to the cold than most, but not to this extreme. Perhaps he’s a bit under the weather? The _why_ , he supposes, doesn’t matter, though; what matters is he’s not completely sure he’ll survive this. The sun has only been down an hour. And already his teeth are chattering so badly that it’s audible, and he himself is shivering so badly that it makes his stomach ache.

Despite this, he thinks, he’s doing a fair job of hiding his misery.

Or maybe not, because the next time he glances up at Porthos, he’s frowning, and it isn’t long before he gets up and comes around to his side of the fire.

“Whassa matter?” he murmurs, voice low.

Athos shakes his head.

“Athos,” Porthos prompts.

Athos opens his mouth and-- just as he was afraid would happen-- _squeaks_. “Cold.”

Porthos might laugh a little at that. But it’s all right, because the next thing he does is wrap both arms around him and pull him close, and he’s so warm, so ungodly warm, that Athos lets out another equally undignified noise.

Aramis, across the fire, definitely laughs at that. Athos ignores him in favor of pressing his face into the crook of Porthos’ neck, shivering even more violently now that his body senses a hope for heat. It doesn’t make sense that Porthos is warmer than the fire. But he is, somehow, and Athos latches onto this greedily, all-too-willing to abandon decorum for a cause this worthy, which is good because the next thing that happens is he shoves his hands into Porthos’ armpits.

“Lord, you’re like ice,” Porthos mutters, but doesn’t pull away. Athos has run out of air against Porthos’ jacket and has no choice but to turn his face a little to the side; the coldness biting once again at his cheek sends a horrible shudder through his body.

But slowly, slowly, the shivering eases. Porthos’ warmth seeps into his face and chest and hands, and spreads out to his legs and feet. It’s such a damn relief that he might honestly collapse, just a little. Reveling in the feeling of not freezing to death he lies limp against his sainted friend lets his breathing catch up to him.

Even Porthos’ breath is warm as he speaks gently into Athos’ hair. “Got somethin’ for ya,” he murmurs, and in the next moment something soft is tucked up around their bodies. “It’s called a blanket,” Porthos continues. “Some people like to wrap up in one _before_ they nearly die of hypothermia.”

Athos nods, dutifully, but says nothing. In a way he thinks this has almost been worth it, because hugs are something he doesn’t really _do_ very often, but this one has been nice. It’s been _really_ nice. Nicer still is the fact that Porthos seems to be inside the blanket with him, seems to have no discernable intention of moving anytime soon.

Athos puts his head back down, and closes his eyes.

*

Aramis, Athos, and the captain have peeled away by the time they reach the garrison; only Porthos is left at his side when d’Artagnan heads wearily for his quarters. He has the rest of the day off of duty. He’s tired enough to sleep for a month, but this is a good start.

He opens the door to his quarters, stares around. They aren’t much but the thought of them has been nothing short of a fantasy for days now, and standing in his doorway he feels the weight of recent events crash in hard.

Then there’s a hand at his back. Porthos coaxes him inside, then closes the door behind them-- then steps closer and whispers, “c’mere.”

And then Porthos is hugging him. D’Artagnan wilts, drapes himself gratefully against Porthos’ chest and rubs his face against the bumpy leather of Porthos’ jacket. This itself had been a dream, too, this comfort. D’Artagnan can hardly believe it’s real, but it is-- Porthos is-- and it feels better than he could have hoped for, the embrace of a friend he might never have seen again.

He’s already shed tears for Pepin. Now, in Porthos’ arms, he feels justified in grieving for the rest of it-- for the days of dread and loneliness, readying himself to die for his king, or worse yet live as a Spanish slave, and even the charade at the Louvre that welcomed him home--feels like he could work up a veritable flood of tears over this-- but he doesn’t. He’s too tired. Instead he only slumps a little further, gives up a little more of his weight to Porthos’ legs, and before long feels a huff of laughter contract in Porthos’ chest.

“You’re done in,” is all Porthos says. D’Artagnan nods weakly, realizes just how much he’s leaning on his friend when Porthos tries to move beneath him and he nearly goes down. Porthos rights him, leads him to the bed. D’Artagnan blinks helplessly upwards, feeling horribly in need of another hug not ten seconds after the last one ended. Instead Porthos is working to remove his boots, belts, and jacket.

“Bet you kept watch every night, eh?” Porthos comments, almost casually.

D’Artagnan nods.

“Sleep at all?”

D’Artagnan shrugs.

Then he’s being hugged again, and Porthos is even stronger and warmer and safer than he was the first time. D’Artagnan can do nothing but breathe him in. They sit this way a long while, and when d’Artagnan finally opens his eyes again he realizes he’s dozed off.

Porthos realizes too, pushes him gently to the mattress. D’Artagnan curls up, feels the tendrils of sleep reach out for him again-- then suddenly he’s struck with the urge to look for Porthos.

Porthos is sitting, just where he was, at the foot of the bed. “Oh, don’t gimme those eyes,” he grouches. “You know I ain’t movin’.”

D’Artagnan manages a gravelly laugh. “Just checking.”

“Mm-hm. You’ve checked. Now sleep.”

Porthos pats his hip fondly, and d’Artagnan does.

*

Porthos is not taking his cue.

Porthos is not taking his _fucking_ cue.

Aramis glances again across the table and tries not to glare, but it’s baffling and more than a little hurtful that Porthos has not yet realized his need and come around and hugged him.

Well, maybe it’s not baffling. He himself has not been the best friend as of late.

Still, it’s more than a little hurtful.

 _Everything_ seems to hurt recently, friends and lovers and _sons_ , and he remembers six years ago-- hell, six months ago-- when a perfectly viable cure for his misery was to crawl into Porthos’ arms and lie, held there, like a babe.

Aramis puts his head in his hands.

It’s a while later that he hears the shuffle of his friends standing, moving away, and still nobody has asked after him. He bites back a sigh, makes to rise as well.

That’s when it happens. That’s when a heavy arm drapes warmly around his shoulders, and a moment later he’s tipping his forehead against Porthos’ belly, staring down at his boots.

“Are you ever,” Porthos asks, quietly, “gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

Aramis has not a single clue what to say to that; instead he nuzzles against Porthos’ jacket and then sighs loudly when this earns him a hand in his hair.

“Right,” Porthos replies, sounding a little frustrated. Still he doesn’t pull away, just stands, familiar and sturdy, with his arm around Aramis’ shoulders. Aramis reaches up, pats feebly at his side.

“For the love of,” Porthos huffs-- and then Aramis is being dragged to his feet, wrapped up in an enormous bear hug, and he sighs again and buries his face in Porthos’ neck. There is nothing that Porthos cannot soothe, even just a little bit. In the past six years he has spent countless, precious minutes in these arms, and here is home more than anything ever has been, more than his father’s distillery and more than the garrison and more than anything, here is home.

“I know you know you’re worryin’ me,” Porthos murmurs, eventually. “What I don’t get is why you won’t do anythin’ about it.”

“Do what?”

“ _Tell me_ ,” Porthos hisses. “Let me help.”

“You are helping,” Aramis replies. “ _This_ is helping. This here, right now.”

“Well good, ‘cause Serge is kind of starin’.”

“He’s jealous. Everybody loves your hugs, my friend. They’re curative. Truly.”

Porthos only huffs again and squeezes him tighter, and when he lets go at last it’s with a smile that should make Aramis feel guilty but that only makes him feel better.

*

The ride back to Paris is long. Porthos rubs at his pauldron, taking comfort from it, but not enough. He feels-- _stepped-on_. Feels like that little piece deep inside of him that never really stopped being five years old has been wrenched out into the open air and _pummeled_.

And what, exactly, had he been expecting? No, the problem is, Belgarde had known exactly what he’d been expecting, at least what he’d been hoping for. A story, plausible if a bit desperately so. Something that allowed him to believe his father still a good man, something that made him feel for even just a moment like he was still somebody’s son.

Christ. His head hurts. His stomach hurts, too, just for good measure apparently, and all he really wants to do is get stupid drunk and sleep for a long time.

They get the horses back to the garrison. Porthos doesn’t wait for the others to follow him, just leaves, but of course when he reaches his apartment they all pile in behind him.

Porthos kicks off his boots and strips off his jacket. Makes for the bed, sort of misses, sits beside it on the floor and tucks his knees up to his chest.

Athos has found a wine bottle, holds it up silently. Porthos tries to say _yes_ , tries to say _don’t even bother to water it_ , but what comes out is a shake of his head and a tiny, pathetic “feelin’ kinda sick, actu’lly.”

Then d’Artagnan is at his side, both of them leaning up against the bed. “Do you want some time alone?” he offers, even though the answer is pretty clear-- at least, he hopes it is. He does not want some time alone. Very possibly he does not want to be left alone ever again.

Athos and Aramis join them on the floor, then. They wait for him to signal the next move, but for a long time all Porthos can do is stare at the floor. He feels called upon to make some graceful speech of defeat, of surrender.

Instead he wraps his arms around himself and, eventually, gets out, “’snot like I held out much hope or anythin’, before this. No worse off than I was, really.”

“I suppose,” Athos says quietly, prompting him along more than he’s actually agreeing.

“Never seemed likely, that I had some decent man out there as a father. Never let myself believe that.”

Only he had. In that one day, that one day before the world had gone to hell, he’d _believed_ him. He had.

“It’s just-- kind of shit, y’know?” he bleats. And somewhere in there is where he tips over the edge into tears.

“Aw, _Porthos_ ,” d’Artagnan whispers.

Porthos brings a hand up to his face, hiding his twisted-up features, fighting tremendously not to sob. He almost wins, too. Then d’Artagnan hauls him sideways, arms fitting warmly around his neck and shoulders, and the moment his head comes to rest on d’Artagnan’s chest he breaks down, loudly, with horrible stammering gasps that send spasms through his body like lightening. D’Artagnan only squeezes tighter.

A moment later there’s a warmth against his back, and Aramis’ arms encircle his middle from behind. Then comes the gentle pressure of Athos’ hands on his knees. Porthos doesn’t have to look to know that his friends have surrounded him, are holding him, will hold him as long as he likes. Which is, despite all things, nice.

“Shit,” he gets out. “Shit, sorry. ‘m cryin’.” It’s possibly a slightly stupid thing to say but it feels necessary in a way he can’t explain, besides which he likes how his friends all respond in turn, from d’Artagnan’s calm “it’s all right, my friend, you needed it” to Aramis’ gentle, “no, are you?” and Athos’ quiet, “we’re here, Porthos, we’re with you.”

They are. They’re here.

Porthos sniffles loudly. His hand is still over his face, wedged between his forehead and d’Artagnan’s collarbone; he tugs it free, wraps his arms around his friend’s skinny waist, and cries harder. Aramis nuzzles the back of his neck. Athos has taken to massaging the sides of his knees, very, very, gently.

A long time passes before he feels himself stop. And even after this, even after the old tears have dried, they hold him.


End file.
